An Evil Both Ancient and Modern

"The Spirit always connects, reconciles, forgives, heals and makes two into one.  It moves beyond human-made boundaries to utterly realign and renew that which is separated and alienated.  The "diabolical" (from two Greek words, dia balein, that mean 'to throw apart'), by contrast, always divides and separates that which could be united and at peace.  Just as the Spirit always makes one out of two, so the evil one invariably makes two out of one!  The evil one tears the fabric of life apart, while the Spirit comes to mend, soften and heal."
--Fr. Richard Rohr, Preparing for Christmas: Daily Meditations for Advent

The nation continues to reel in the aftermath of the Newtown school shooting.  We grieve and try to direct our anger toward a meaningful and helpful response.  As we always do in our modern, secular society, our first reaction is to figure out some legal, technical fix for our problems.  Profoundly simplistic (and, frankly, simple-minded) solutions blare out from across the political spectrum, from banning handguns to returning state-sanction prayer into public schools.  But there is something far more complex and perplexing going on here than new legislation can correct.  The Newtown Massacre reveals an evil among us that is at once both ancient and commonplace, and also new and modern.

Today's polite intelligentsia shy away from using the term "evil."  The moral relativism that dominates our public and private discourse prefers to see all ethical questions as being culturally conditioned and open to broad interpretation.  Tolerance is our highest value. 

And yet, the slaughter of small children seems to shock even the most hardened secularist into moral indignation.  Something horrible has happened, and it must be accounted for.

Evil of this scale is not new, of course.  Since biblical times, children have been victimized and brutalized.  Consider that the Church even has a feast day in memory of the Holy Innocents murdered by Herod in his attempt to prevent the Messiah from reaching adulthood.

But even Herod's evil had a motive.  Terrorists and tyrants have claimed innocent lives throughout history, but typically with some political rationale, however twisted.  The kind of senseless, directionless violence of the Newtown Massacre leaves us deeply bewildered and shaken.  In terms of its context, there is no historical reference point.

And this is why we must view this tragic show of evil from a broader, more theological lens than pundits and politicians will prefer. 
One hundred years ago, Americans had easier access to firearms than they do today.  They also had the full range of mental illnesses and familial hostilities we're familiar with today.  But people simply did not walk into schoolhouses and murder children.

Something has happened to us Americans.  I'm not prophetic enough to parse it out, and trying to link societal changes that may be relevant to the specific situation in Newtown would be foolhardy and futile.  But it's worth pondering how we are different now.  What role does the demise of the family, the decline of religious practice, the disintegration of a common moral tradition, the breakdown of civic society, play in all this?  What has happened to us that such evil, once inconceivable, is now a reality we must live with on a daily basis?

These questions don't preclude considerations of public policy, but defy any straightforward policy solution. 

It occurs to me, for example, that our horror over the Newtown Massacre does not extend to a widespread public concern for the abortion of several hundred thousand babies each  year, whose fate differs only from the children in Newtown in the fact that they are even smaller and more vulnerable, and were actually killed by their parents, rather than some random stranger.  But I don't for a second think that a public policy solution (outlawing or restricting abortion) would suddenly bring an end to that tragic loss of life any more than gun control laws would eliminate school violence.

Whatever has happened to us is more complex than just what was going on in the sick, diabolical mind of Adam Lanza.

Whatever our political response to these events, they will be incomplete (and thus ineffective) without a serious consideration of the collective spiritual sources and solutions to our condition.  Let us pray for clarity as a people, and the courage to confront our own brokenness and sin.

"O God, whom the Holy Innocents confessed
and proclaimed on this day,
not by speaking but by dying,
grant, we pray,
that the faith in you which we confess with our lips
may also speak through our manner of life.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you in the unity
   of the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.  Amen."
--Collect prayer from the Feast of the Holy Innocents, Martyrs

"What's Next, Lord?"

"When we demand satisfaction of one another, when we demand any completion to history on our terms, when we demand that our anxiety or any dissatisfaction be taken away, saying as it were, 'Why weren't you this for me?  Why didn't life do that for me?' we are refusing to say, 'Come, Lord Jesus.'  We are refusing to hold out for the full picture that is always given by God."
--Fr. Richard Rohr, Preparing for Christmas: Daily Meditations for Advent

In the many years before my wife and I had children (we were married 14 years before the first arrived), I often marveled at the endurance and patience of young parents we knew.  Even then I speculated that parenting must be one of the most profound spiritual journeys of life, calling a person to a level of sacrifice and self-giving nothing short of heroic.

Now that we are parents too, with two children both under the age of three, I can attest with conviction to what I could only speculate about then.  I am embarasssed to admit it, but the sea of spilled milk, spit up, dirty diapers, and copious quantitites of tears (more than a few my own), coupled with a numbing, never-ending sleep deprivation, has revealed enormous personal limitations, attachments, and all manner of other inner junk I barely knew was there.  Most days I stumble around irritably clinging to the last shred of patience and equanimity I can muster, only to watch it shatter when some simple task like going to the bathroom is interrupted for the umpteenth time by the piercing shriek by one of our precious but highly-demanding children.

And then there's the guilt I feel about feeling the way I feel.  Objectively speaking, I am the most blessed person I know.  My children are beautiful, healthy, and (when they get their way) happy.  My marriage is stable and strong.  We have more than adequate material resources and fantastic jobs that afford us a work-life balance (such that it is) that most people can only dream of.  Realizing how deeply attached I am to order and predictability, to the products of my work life (which have suffered subtly but signicantly in recent months), to regular periods of solitude and self-reflection...it all makes me wonder what kind of crisis I'd have if something really difficult actually happened in my life.

But my guilt is not enough to transform my exhaustion into energy or my frustration into gratitude. 
I pray about it, but mostly I think I secretly pray that God will somehow make it all better (restore order and regularity and some modicum of self-control to my life) rather than give me the grace to endure this natural but difficult time with dignity and faith.

Advent is a season of waiting and expectation as we prepare ourselves for the Lord's coming, not simply in the memory of the Christmas Incarnation, but in our everyday lives and in our own time.  It is extremely tempting to spiritualize my current state into some kind of prayer to make all this pass.  "Come, Lord Jesus, and make my son sleep through the night; come, Lord Jesus, and help me finish grading these papers today; come, Lord Jesus, and get us to church on time for a change."  As if somehow all of that would prove that he is Emmanuel, that "God is with us."

In fact, I do believe (intellectually, even if I truly lack the faith to back it up) that He is already with us, that He is already here amid the chaos and the dirty laundry and the endless struggles to find something a toddler will eat.  The appropriate prayer for me this Advent is to surrender to whatever mysterious graces the Lord is offering me in this present moment, just as it is. Rather than "Come, Lord Jesus," my Advent prayer should be, "What next, Lord?" as I seek to perceive whatever he is revealing to me in the latest temper tantrum, skinned knee, or tardy arrival to work.

Mostly, I think He is revealing how petty are most of my concerns, how I cling to all kinds of things that aren't, in the big picture, all that important.  I wish seeing this somehow made me stop these perpetual patterns of self-inflicted anxiety, but even my failure to "improve" these aspects of my personality are still teaching me about his goodness and glory.  After all, while we are called to holiness, His grace is nevertheless poured out to us just as we are.  Even as I love my children no matter how difficult they are each day, so He loves me, even in my brokenness and frustration.  Perhaps the most important thing he's asking me to surrender is my own fear of being human.

Emmanuel, come and open my eyes to the goodness all around me, including the goodness with myself, just as I am.  Help  me to find you in this present moment. 

What's next, Lord?  I'm waiting to find out.  Amen.